


The Birth of Gardens

by VeeJeanDee



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25653877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeeJeanDee/pseuds/VeeJeanDee
Summary: A short story stemmed from a plot-bunny Charlie White, AKA moistcr1tikal on YouTube/Twitch gave in a video of his, written for his birthday:"I had this idea, where a woman--or a man, it doesn't really matter--gets pregnant, just spontaneously toward the end of her life; like she's ninety-years old and she gets pregnant. And within nine months, she gives birth to a younger version of herself that keeps all the memories she had. So she has immortality, because she keeps rebirthing herself, as a twenty-year old woman when she reaches like, ninety."Damned good idea, and I didn't really STEAL it. I just like writing, and all credit for the idea goes to him.
Kudos: 1





	The Birth of Gardens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Charlie White](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Charlie+White).



**The Birth of Gardens**

~*~

_“You should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it.”_

_-R.M. Rilke_

~*~

There would always be pain and panic which came at the end of one cycle before the next began, Willow well-aware of the process. It had been close to a week now since she’d last been able to move around and make precise, perfect preparations for the transition, before the stiffening of her joints and her flesh feeling brittle and paper-like made everything from typing to sipping tea an agonizing experience. She’d given it her all to push through it; physical pain, she’d already come to know well. Mentally and emotionally, however…

Rebirthing required the ending of the old, something Willow hadn’t felt she’d become despite every sign she _had_. The depressing denial captured in her mournful words, _but I wasn’t done yet_ , had thankfully not held her back from everything she had to do when she was, officially, ‘done’. The kitchen of her secluded home, set in Oregon’s Bigfork county wilderness, was stocked more than usual, for both Willow and the new life created within her—which by now seemed ready to burst forth and start everything over, skipping this oncoming final stage entirely.

The only comfort Willow had available was what she herself had been comforted by, decades and decades before through her own birth. Her daughter would need every ounce of stability and assurance set in motion long before she arrived, entering… or _re_ -entering the world as the confused, lonely mystery she was fated to live as. Even as her hands ached and strained in pouring out a large glass of the large, calorie-heavy smoothie she made with vanilla ice cream, various berries and sugar, she had to smile, however shaky it arrived on her face. The life inside seemed to sense it; most times, her shifting around to find a more comfortable position was sickening and reminded Willow of how terrifying her existence truly was. This time, however, an odd rush of what had to be pure endorphins made her pain wane, replaced with a dizzying, high feeling. She took advantage of it in grabbing her last ‘meal’ and shuffling out of the room and to the hallway leading to her bedroom, quicker than she’d been able to move. Her cane made light _clacks_ on the hardwood flooring, footsteps shuffling as she entered her room and went to the bed. Before setting everything and herself down, one last time, she made a shaky sigh while gazing around the room.

Computer on, document open; check. Boxes full of documentation, instructions and ‘life histories’; check. Large stacks of blankets, sheets and clothing; check. Every favorite of every life—comfortable country dresses, books, artwork, art _supplies_ , cosmetics, photo albums, snacks, records and player, stacks upon stacks of everything soothing and comforting; check. She was tempted to bring a few adult coloring books and pencils to the bed with her, but at the last moment changed her mind. “They’d end up a holy mess to clean up,” she said aloud, both to herself and _herself_ , the latter moving around again as she finally settled herself onto the thick layer of multiple blankets she’d arranged over the mattress. The moment her head and neck was laid upon the mass of pillows behind her, she felt it—felt everything.

“It’s… so scary. I’m sorry,” she murmured. While bringing the straw of her drink up to her trembling lips, she ran her other hand over her chest and stomach, up and down in smooth, soothing strokes. She’d gotten used to the odd formations created from inside—whether an elbow jutting forth just below her sternum tenting her flesh or thick bulges of fluid trapped between her, herself and the life-creating, thinning sac of protection so close to coming apart. To anyone else, she was deformed, terrifying and inhuman. For Willow and the ‘Monarch’ before her, it was simply the appalling normalcy of _being_. Before mental distress and exhaustion took hold and created a storm Willow wouldn’t be able to control, she swallowed her first large gulp of her chilled, sweet-tasting drink, released a shaky breath… and smiled again. “When you come out… it really _is_ a beautiful world, you know. More beautiful than m-most really get to know, and understand…”

No pain came when speaking; it made things feel better, in fact, so that was what Willow did. It felt right, this storytelling routine being part of her own, personal ‘curtain call’. It’d been Sara, the Monarch’s ‘last act’ as well, bringing Willow calm and comfort before everything stopped… then began, again. It was her turn now to show how much she’d learned… “You get used to a life alone, you know. Again, something not a lot of people learn h-how to be.” Willow sighed and went on to relay whatever life experiences she’d had which popped into her mind as important. Whether it was a long, amusing story involving the scant few others living in the area she’d been acquainted with—old ‘Widow Rumble’, the rum-loving old woman who lived on the other side of the mountain being the most prominent, and for good reason—or the joys of waking up every morning to the sound of the opossum family she shared backyard space with scrambling for fish and other water creatures at the lake, she talked for hours, until more notable changes began.

“So s-stiff now,” she muttered while staring at the hand holding her half-emptied glass. Her skin was starting to shift from pale peach to almost _clear_ , a murky film starting to ooze from her pores. It glistened and spread out slowly, meeting the next pore, the next, until her whole hand and start of her wrist felt encased in a clear plastic glove. The next movement of deep, dark _hunger_ had her latch onto the straw again, moaning lightly as she took the last of her drink in a long, seamless sip until every drop had been sucked down. It took every bit of effort to stretch her arm to the side table to set the glass down then grab the box of her favorite shortbread cookies. They were brought to her chest and set down for her to pluck a few out and eat them greedily. Another smile came on, wider than the others had been. “At least I can gobble whatever I l-like down, going th-through this, hmm?” she said, even chuckling a little at herself. “As if I’ve h-had to have an hourglass, perfect figure to im… impress n-nobody…”

Her words trailed off now; the effort of speaking and eating at the same time became impossible, and the importance of the latter took over for now. She was glad to have a pre-poured large glass of water available, that nourishment being the most imperative. She’d been sure to fill herself with as much of that as possible for weeks now, even when she’d felt like screaming, _no more, please!_ , and come close to vomiting everything up. Once polishing off the pastries, she strained to grab the glass and wash everything down. After three large, throat-busting gulps, she kept the rim of the glass close to her lips as she stared at the ceiling. Her eyesight was starting to dim, everything unfocused and mottled by her body’s becoming encased in what could only be described as an outer-womb, protective layers thickening and starting to swaddle her entire form. She made an experimental attempt at wiggling her toes; though they were able to move, just a little, her ankles had become sealed together as if becoming one single, solitary unit.

It wasn’t long before she felt her face being slowly swallowed up and one last rush of pure terror exploded from her nervous system. ‘Don’t fight, it’s all right, don’t fight,’ she thought as a mantra as the world slowly crept away, replaced by a hazy, suffocating glow. The instinct to hold her breath was hard to overcome, but when she felt fit to burst and die, she released the tension built up inside in a long, shuddering exhale and sharp inhale of the life-giving liquid she was now encased inside of. ‘It’s so warm,’ she thought, dazed and feeling a few moments of stomach-churning nausea until, finally, she reached the end of this stage and set her gaze down toward her chest, where it became cemented on the blurred image of the face she knew most.

Thinking, ‘We really are beautiful, aren’t we?’ toward the face—her very own, from decades and decades before, brought an unusual yet welcome, blissful comfort to her. Though the surroundings had darkened and become hard to see through, seeing her new, almost life-ready form she’d grown having the same bright blue irises she had was beautifully bittersweet. Her mouth moved, almost as if trying to speak back to her, though whatever words she was trying to say never arrived. She looked lost, confused and scared, a heartbreaking sight; Willow had never been a mother, but _was_ one, in this tragic, unique format she’d known all along she’d have to endure and _die_ with, since the moment conscious thought had set in many, many years before. Though she could feel her mind slipping away into the transition process, she had enough left in her to smile and give one last squeeze of her muscles to ‘embrace’ her new form best she could. ‘It’s a terrifying beauty, us,’ she thought; as if she’d spoken aloud, the blue eyes she was staring into focused in on her more, her expression easing. ‘Same-braining’, as the Monarch had called it. Willow let one more deep breath in and out before she closed her eyes and accepted this end, knowing she’d done all she could to let herself continue on, without her.

~*~

** Six Days Later **

The feeling of sun-warmed soil and earth was possibly the most euphoric and meaningful to Zerene, giving her calm and purpose. The newest flowerbed, plotted and prepared by Willow weeks before for Zerene to continue creating was finally made whole and full of life-giving potential deep within it. It was a bittersweet ‘landmark’ for Zerene to help create and preserve her own history—an earthborn historical _artifact_ , known only to her and no one else. The rest of the world would see nothing but a rich, natural beauty she hoped would become just as gorgeous as the _other_ garden plot—the first, the Monarch’s, flourishing, _burgeoning_ with numerous forms of colorful, fragrant life.

_Death is life’s purpose_ carried the most meaning out of everything Willow had told her throughout Zerene’s formation, from the moment she’d become aware of her existence. It’d felt like forever feeling ready to _be_ , much like a normal teenager went through, growing up. She’d felt everything a grown human would yet could only remain trapped within whatever design life had brought to herself through Willow, Willow having been through the same with the Monarch before _her_. ‘Sara’ had been her name—in a way, it was Zerene and Willow’s name, as well.

With dusk starting to wash the sky with golden yellow and orange hues, Zerene left the rest of the planting project for the next day in favor of going to the small ‘rest spot’ set between the old garden and new one to come. The soft cotton of her floral-printed dress swayed with strong breezes rushing over the lake to her land, the fabric making soft, tickling slaps over her knees as she sat in the old wooden chair that’d been Willow’s favorite. “Sara made this… should have become a master carpenter,” she recalled Willow saying, and she hadn’t been wrong; Zerene reclined with a long, soothing sigh and set her sights on the mass of butterfly bushes lining the back of Sara’s garden. Sure enough, the usual crowd started making their appearance, Zerene’s smile growing with every flutter of wings she heard in the air as butterflies, all types, sizes and colors, came to gobble down the sweet, delicious nectars made available to them.

‘Widow Rumble’ had already made an appearance, two days before; she’d come for news of her old friend, even if she’d already known what Zerene’s being here and Willow’s _not_ had meant. It’d been a distinctive, mysterious heartbreak for Zerene, having to pretend she’d never met the ‘tough old bird’ as Willow had described. In more ways than one, she knew the Widow more than she could admit to. Yet having to pretend the ‘hello’ she’d given was her first came with another purpose—a duty to care for those left behind.

“Oh, your grandmother… she’d always say she wished she was as tough as me, but…” Widow had started with, chuckling dryly as she’d sat with Zerene in the _other_ handcrafted chair beside her. Though some stories Zerene knew, many others she hadn’t; it let her giggle and gasp a few times, getting to know _more_ of not just Willow, but herself. They’d stayed talking and laughing together until the butterflies that were here now had shown. “They love Willow’s gardens more than anyone else’s. It’s like magic,” the woman, a little more than just a _bit_ inebriated by her rum-flavored cocktails, had said with a dreamy grin. She was right, without knowing just _why_ she was.

Whether Zerene and her forms before her saw things through a ‘magical lens’ or not, it came with feelings no other human being could ever conceive experiencing. Having to keep them in the dark over ‘family history’ could be suffocating, but there _were_ beings who somehow knew, and understood. With every suckle made upon each Cosmos, Sage, Nasturtium and so many other plant-floral-form, the butterflies knew where their nourishment came from, and why. No language had been invented for people and insects to communicate with each other, but just their nightly visits to drink from the secret grave of what had been left behind between the Monarch and Willow, their mysterious bond made into the dried, nourishing husk of chrysalis buried below was enough.

Zerene could only hope that they’d be just as excited and hungry for the garden Willow had helped create and left for Zerene to finish. She turned her head away from the hustle-bustle of butterfly feeding activity to the plot waiting to be crafted, swearing she heard a heartbeat’s thrum come from underneath the soil in a muted yet strong pulse. That was where she’d laid the last of Willow and her birth to rest, to _breathe_ and live, still.

_Live as you. Not as me. Be you,_ Willow had told her not long before her birth. It would be hard to pull away from instincts she’d been born with, instincts duplicated from one mind to another. It was the closest thing to family, a sibling, Zerene would ever know. There would be no lineage, no ‘family tree’ she could create and present to anyone else without creating confusion, doubt and suspicion.

_You will be alone… but be everything, at the same time._ Looking back to the fluttering, air-dancing creatures now in an uncountable amount gathered around the Monarch’s garden confirmed Willow’s wisdom for Zerene, who felt the first real, comforting smile come on her face since her rebirth.


End file.
